Anthrax had set in on May 11th, and all Paris was interested in the end of the great diplomatist and the question of reconciliation. Candles were burning in every chapel in the city. Messengers were running to and fro between Saint Sulpice and the archbishop’s house, as they had run so many times between foreign embassies when Talleyrand was obstinate. On the evening of the 16th he was visibly sinking, and his niece implored him to sign the form. He promised to do so at six in the morning. When he grew worse during the night, and they pressed him to sign, he observed it was not yet six. When the hour came Dupanloup sent in to him the little Pauline dressed for her first communion, and as Talleyrand caressed her the clock struck six. Dupanloup and the witnesses entered, and Talleyrand signed. “I have never ceased,” the paper ended, “to regard myself as a child of the Church. I again deplore the actions of my life that have caused it pain, and my last wishes are for its supreme head.” Dupanloup had politely refrained from inserting such phrases as “sin” and “repentance.” It was a gracious acknowledgment of errors committed in a wayward age. This was the price of a peaceful and honourable burial. Gregory XVI is said to have described it as one of the triumphs of his reign. The document was antedated two months. During the day the King came to bid him farewell. Talleyrand was greatly moved at the honour, and received the King ceremoniously. Dupanloup was in constant attendance, and succeeded in inducing him to confess and receive the sacraments. As the day wore on he became more and more exhausted, and approached the end. In the adjoining room all Paris was waiting for the close. Statesmen, nobles and scholars, young and old, were gathered in little groups before the curtain that cut off the bedroom from the library. At a quarter to four the doctor was called, and there was a general movement towards the door. The curtain was drawn back, and all saw the figure of the Prince. He sat on the edge of the bed supported by two servants—a “dying lion,” says one witness. His long, white hair now hung loosely about the pallid and shrunken face. The head drooped on the chest, but now and again he slowly raised it and looked with the last faint shadow of a smile on the great crowd that had come to pay the tribute of France. It was a “grand spectacle,” said Royer-Collard; the fall of “the last cedar of Lebanon.” He “died in public,” “died amidst regal pomp and reverence,” say other eyewitnesses. The duchess and her daughter knelt by the bedside. He was conscious to the end—conscious that his career was ending amidst a manifestation of love, power and profound respect as great as he could ever have wished.